


later

by orphan_account



Series: likewise [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Americana, Blanket Permission, Implied/Referenced Underage, Las Vegas, M/M, Pre-Canon, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25721047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Late nights in Las Vagas.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: likewise [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858870
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	later

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: holy crap that's a lot of typos I'm sorry. I fixed it tho (: Please tell me if there's any more lol.

The second thing you should know: it didn’t start when Sam was fifteen. 

*

When Sam’s fifteen, he gets an _attitude._ Dean is not surprised: he’s spent the last four years dealing with Sam’s offhanded snarky comments, bitchy refusals to take his nose out of the book du jour, the little frown he wears when Dad starts telling them what to do. But something happens when he’s fifteen, and goddamn Dean if he knows what it is. 

They’re driving out of Winslow, Dean in shotgun, glancing at the rearview mirror, trying to get a glimpse of his brother. He’s been broody all day, moping around like someone ripped out the spine to his copy of _Lord of the Flies_. Won’t talk to Dad, barely uttered a word to Dean. He’s like some mysterious dark creatures, hiding under the blanket. 

Dean throws a cassette tape at him. Sam looks up and glares. Dean grins. Sam looks away, and Dean still can't get a read on him. 

*

They land in Blue Diamond, Nevada, a thirty miles’ drive from Las Vegas. Dad’s on the hunt for a ghost, keeps leaving them in their Western-style motel with cracked wallpaper and frescoes of cowboys. 

They’ve been to Nevada before, of course: Dean can count on one hand the states they _haven’t_ visited. But they’ve never seen Las Vegas. Dean keeps closing his eyes and gets these pictures: high billboards glittering in the night, towers piercing the night sky. Girls and gambles and the clacking of pool cues. 

Dean’s had a lot of bad ideas in life, but he’s pretty sure this takes the cake. 

*

He comes home on Tuesday, throws Sam a chocolate bar, and says “Pack your bags, we’re heading out.” Sam’s eyes go wide, panicked, and Dean realizes; he shakes his head, reaches for an overnight bag. “No, no, we- we’re not leaving. But we are going to Vegas.” He grins. 

He expects Sam to say no, to yell at him, tell him that he’s behind on his homework or something. But his brother’s whole face lights up, like Dean’s told him they found a gold mine. 

“Jesus, Sammy, didn’t know you were that interested in prostitutes,” He says, because he doesn’t know what else to say, has never really known what to do when Sam looks at him like he’s got the whole world in his hands. He watches Sam’s expression fall, before his brother stands back up, already rolling his eyes and aiming a punch right for Dean’s shoulder. 

“Shut up, you son of a bitch,” he says, and Dean says, “Right back at you.” 

* 

Sam spills his Gatorade on the way in, blue staining all over the ground of the gas station they stop at. He’s _almost_ smiling, this strange expression on his face that tells Dean, somehow, that he’s doing something right. Sam’s got blue fingers even after washing his hands, and he sucks on candy that stains his tongue bright yellow, refusing to share the chips. 

Dean rolls his eyes and grabs them anyways. 

The city comes into view like an oasis, and Dean supposes it is, watery lights amidst the black-starry night sky, and they fly through Paradise with the windows down and the volume up, Sam cracking off facts about how Las Vegas started as a mob town. 

They pull into town with three guns and seventy dollars to their name. 

*

Dean is better at pool, but Sam has always been the one who knows his way around cards. Texas hold ‘em, gin rummy, blackjack - they’ve played just about every game in the books three thousand times over. When he was younger, less interested in doing his schoolwork at every spare moment, Sam would challenge random people on the street to card games, grin smugly when he beat grown men out of their pocket money. Dean spent a lot of time keeping Sam from getting beat up, when he was a kid. 

A lot of whittling about on Dean’s side means Sam gets in with a fake ID and a questioning look from the security guard. A billboard truck whizzes by as they step in, telling the whole of Las Vegas about the _craaaazy_ girls they got just outta town. 

The chandeliers lined with crystals illuminate the whole room in a soft glow, women in golden dresses and men in sharp-tie suits. People pass around cocktails with olives and umbrellas in them, a woman’s painted nails glinting as she throws craps die. 

The waiter’s looking at them like they don’t belong. If only he knew. 

Sam and Dean share a look. Dean cracks his knuckles, and they get to it. 

*

Sam plays cards like he’s manic, like he’s lost his mind, like time has ceased to exist and there’s nothing but the patterns of clubs on diamonds on spades, runs of four as he plays rummy and full houses in poker. Dean’s supposed to be running the pool table, but he keeps getting distracted, and Sam is no help: he just looks up at Dean with this wicked look in his eyes, like he knows precisely what he wants and how he’s gonna get it. 

It’s the first time Dean’s seen him with that look. 

(It won’t be the last.)

*

They walk out with three thousand dollars and sworn vengeance from two other patrons and a dealer, grinning like maniacs, and Sam’s laughing for the first time in fucking _months_ , and Dean thinks; hell, doesn’t matter if Dad yells, this is worth it. 

There’s a fountain and Dean grabs them these three-in-the-morning restaurant crepes, the most expensive meal he’s ever bought, and they sit and watch the light-and-water show, syrupy-sweet lemon-and-powdered-sugar rotting his teeth. 

The water erupts in front of the casino, light dancing like the world’s greatest show. Dean wipes his fingers on the bench, smiles at his brother, a pink-purple glitter on the water in the background and the taste lemon in his mouth, and he’s pretty sure this is the best moment of his life. 

*

They drive back in a haze, Sam with a crushed can of booze in his hands and Dean with this weird sensation in his skin, like being high but better, and hell, maybe this is what Sam’s going on about when he talks about being _elated,_ like everything’s gone technicolor. The moonlight flickers off the dashboard, glints on Sam’s teeth. 

He stops on the roadside, the desert spread out around him like a junkyard, and he nudges Sam, says something like “Teenage wasteland, huh, Sammy?” And Sam just- Sam _looks_ at him, something in his eyes that Dean can’t identify-

Sam kisses him, wet and inexperienced, soft and warm. His hands don’t shake and he doesn’t say anything, and for a second there Dean is on the verge of making the biggest mistake of his life, standing the precipice, and-

Dean lets Sam kiss him, pull him by the wrist and lean over him, run his index finger down Dean’s throat. The lights flash behind him, and Dean thinks of those jets in the fountain flaying the night sky. For a second it almost looks like Sam’s got a halo. 

*

He drives like a maniac, eating chips by the handful and not tasting anything. Sam doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t sulk, doesn’t brood, just looks at him, this imperceptible broken expression in his eyes. Dean doesn’t know what to say - he’d let Sam have everything. 

The pull up to the motel, neon lights flashing on and off like a constant blackout, like there’s something dark and sick and syrupy in the wires. Sam looks at him, question in his eyes, and Dean doesn't say _no._

*

They never talk about Vegas again, drive through the city and its strange world-bending lights with Sam stoically rolling his eyes and Dean excited, jacked up on the idea of winning millions or drunk-marrying a world-class model, pretending. 

There's no repeat, no leadup, and sometimes, Dean thinks that he can logic it away, make up excuses. They were drunk, off of victory and freedom and all those other things being a teenager makes you stupid for. It never happened again. What can you do when you live in someone’s pocket your whole life, shit’s bound to go screwy sometimes. Didn’t mean anything. 

*

He doesn’t admit it ‘til Sam’s swept off to California; there was a precedent, Dean just didn't want to see it. They were always a bit too close, hand on the knee where most siblings would give a smile, a myriad of unnecessary physical contact. That time when Sam was fourteen and they took him out on his first hunt and he got hurt, and Dean had to keep himself from decking Dad when he said, _you've gotta get used to it, son, can't protect Sammy from everything._

And here's the kicker: Sam was thirteen when he first kissed Dean. Dean didn't respond, didn't push back, but he never said _no._ He doesn't think he knows how. 

He slams the gas and wishes for another bottle, wishes he could pull this thing out of him, this black, tainted line wrapped around his heart, this sickly sort of virus. Wishes he knew how to just _stop,_ how to stop needing Sam like air, to stop treating him like a phantom limb. 

He wishes, but he’s got no clue _how._

He thinks, strange enough, that maybe that was why Sam left. That Sam _knew,_ the way Dean knows how to clean a Glock, the way he knows how to sharpen a knife. Maybe Sam left, and Dean was just another thing to run away from.

He hits a bar, dark-green pool tables, shitty lighting and bad company, and thinks of those crepes he had when he was nineteen in the city of lost dreams. He downs another bottle. 

(It won’t be the last.) 

**Author's Note:**

> Las Vegas was founded by entrepreneurial mobsters to evade the taxes in Paradise, and prostitution is illegal in the city, so the trucks take customers out of town to the brothels.


End file.
